Zelda ordered deep fried mozzarella cheese, which earned arched eyebrows. “You don’t see me for two weeks and you play the how fat have you gotten game?”
“No,” Puppy said gallantly. “We’re referring to your voluptuous E sized cups.”
Her scowl sent his attention toward a pretty blonde in the corner; he doffed his cap.
“Will you take off your damn Yankee hat?” Zelda growled.
“Okay, evil princess.” Puppy laid it lovingly on his lap.
She hailed a waiter. “Can I change my order to a salad? Any fake crap food will do.”
Zelda gulped her water as the men watched, worried.
“So. I’m doing pretty well.”
“That’s obvious,” Pablo said wryly.
“I am. Look.” She pulled apart her mouth.
“Job promotion?”
She smacked Puppy. “Would I be this happy if I got a promotion, which I did anyway?”
The boys exchanged another concerned look.
Pablo leaned forward. “Are you in trouble?”
That was a genius sort of question, she realized.
“I know you think I’m porky ass.” Zelda glared down their feeble protests. “But this is not all blubber.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a good appetite…” Puppy began.
“It’s not from eating, is it?” Pablo’s eyes narrowed. Zelda blinked back tears and shook her head. “Is it mine?”
“Why does everyone ask that?”
“Everyone?”
“Who’s everyone?” Puppy persisted.
“She’s pregnant,” he said with mild disdain.
“Shit,” Puppy muttered, sitting up straight. “Oh shit, guys.”
“Don’t give me that look,” Zelda said. “It’s a great honor. Maybe I can have another one someday. It hurts and I didn’t plan it but I’m going to the Parents once a week and I don’t throw up much and I’m kinda relieved and a little happy. Maybe a lot happy.”
“We’re happy for you, too.” Puppy poked the sullen Pablo.
“So it’s not mine?” the dentist asked.
“No. I got it tested.”
“Diego?” Puppy asked.
She hesitated, nodding.
“Who the hell is Diego?” The name was like fried feces in Pablo’s mouth.
She nearly lost it. “How many more questions do you have?”
“Until you give us all the answers.”
Zelda jumped up and showed off her belly to the room. “Two months.” She curtsied at the approving applause and moved her chair and bread to another table of diners before her friends coaxed her back.
Pablo and Puppy ordered Kansas IPA beers, studying Zelda as if she’d soon fly around the room backwards. She joined them in the silence, figuring the story about Diego, Clary and how Black Tops murdered twenty orphans might be too much for one day.
“You need a partner at the Parents?” Pablo asked softly.
“I have someone. But thanks.”
Pablo ordered another round. “I’m still a licensed medical officer. So if you need any help…”
“I’ll ask.” She squeezed their hands and ordered the mozzarella en carozzo. No one had an appetite.
When Zelda got home, charcoaled sketches of Clary were taped to the walls, on top of the stove, over the bathroom sink and tucked in the couch and chair cushions.
“Buenos noches.” Clary burst out of the bedroom, spinning balletically on her toes. “Clary es una persona muy famosa.”
Zelda tossed aside her purse.
“Una persona muy famosa,” Clary repeated, annoyed.
When Zelda still didn’t get it, Clary impatiently dragged her into the bedroom. They watched the vidnews for a few moments. Zelda got up to leave, but Clary yanked her back onto the bed.
“Una momento.” She muttered something about loco senorita, then jumped up and down on the bed, applauding. “Clary es una persona muy famosa.”
A sketch of Clary, complete with the scarred cross on her cheek, moved along the screen, bordered by HELP US FIND THIS MISSING GIRL. PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL BLUE SHIRT PRECINCT. THANK YOU.
Zelda rushed into the bathroom and retched. Clary happily sketched another photo.
• • • •
MOOSHIE SQUATTED AT the edge of the dark 167th Street subway platform, then tumbled forward, cushioning herself into a roll several inches from the track. The ground rumbled slightly and, in the tunnel, distant lights of the express spliced the blackness.
You must’ve landed on your head. Cracked your skull and then the train finished you off. Mooshie crouched, watching the train thunder past, taking the light with it.
She grabbed the edge of the platform to hoist herself back up. A strong hand clutched her forearm. Mooshie gasped.
“You could hurt yourself.” Hazel tugged her up; she broke free and stumbled backwards slightly. “That third rail is still alive.”
Mooshie shifted her weight from right to left, glancing up and down the tracks to determine which way she’d run.
John laughed at her anxiety and introduced himself. “John Hazel.”
Mooshie kept her recognition to herself.
“You do know who I am?”
She jumped vertically back onto the platform. Hazel whistled admiringly.
“Why are you following me?”
“Can’t I just hang out here like you do? Quiet. Good place to think.” He threw a can at something scurrying nearby.
Mooshie headed toward the steps.
“What, no derisive hair flip, Mooshie?”
She laughed, stopping. “Who?”
“The greatest baseball player ever.”
“You got me mixed up, baby.”
“Nah.” He shook his head.
“I sing her songs. I’m also not Paul McCartney or Goodley Alizi.”
“They weren’t murdered here, either.”
Lopez waited warily as Hazel approached, holding up his hands innocently.
“You didn’t much mingle with the fans once you slid downward, Moosh. Okay if I call you that? But when you were the greatest baseball player ever and one of the greatest singers ever, you’d take the subway every day. Your apartment was three blocks away at the Concourse Arms. I used to wait for you every day, in the middle of the boulevard, behind a tree. They hadn’t outlawed autographs yet but I was still too shy. I just wanted a glimpse of the great Mooshie heading to the stadium or off to record an album.”
He rocked on his artificial leg and began singing, “Blue eyed boy, I’m not your toy. Don’t play with my soul ‘cause I ain’t got one.” Hazel puckered his mouth. “Kicking My Nuts never took off. Don’t get it. The lyrics were so simple and poignant.”
“Mister Hazel…”
“John.”
“I only sing her songs. I’m Dara Dinton. My mother died on this subway which is why…”
“Your mother died after you, in the chem attack. Along with my whole family,” his voice hardened.
